


Scenery Of A Passing Glance.

by SunsetConservatory



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 07:51:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetConservatory/pseuds/SunsetConservatory
Summary: The world comes in shapes, sizes and even colours previously unknown! To explore it all would be a fruitless task for fools with not enough time, as such, it appears a kind soul has gifted upon you a book of their lineage's travels!Though, the book seems to just 'update' with new information, every so often.





	1. A Little Town Named Unknown.

Rain pelts the bountiful leaves towering over the paths and wooden sidewalks on their strong branches, thin leaves of orange, green and red flutter to the river of a sidewalk below. Above, the sky is painted pale blue and pinks, puffs of pink-shaded clouds dot the horizon.

 

Wet soil permeates the dewy air, the scent and manure kicked up by both the cleansing rains and the wheels of coming and going carriages. Smoke billows from the nearby chimneys of crimson bricked homes, blinds pulled taunt in front of their glassless windows. Covered in vines, white lilies and surrounded by stalks of grass n' celestial ornaments; hanging from both the doorways and rooftops alike.

 

Foot made paths of pebble, and dirt, and lost equipment, torn pieces of leather shoes or cotton pant leg, forlorn tears, and spilt foamy drink from the gutsy traveller. The path has a message to all who tread it, even to those who may only receive of glimpse of the well-worn, ancient road. Gifted a silent, hearty laugh and a warm tone, it yells at all:

 

 

> _"Welcome! Goodbye!"_


	2. Better late then never.

Rose petals stain the tea water blue, steam spiralling off the bubbling liquid in thick, sweet plumes. Brimming with foam in the twin-armed Bone China cups sat neatly for all three chairs pulled up to the florally blanketed, cherrywood coffee table.

 

Rose petals clash and conform with the dewy grass growing past the kneecaps of the average toddler, tickling the ends of the mint-shaded sheet covering the table. Pine trees embedded with carvings of promises, knives nearly shaper than an old woman's wit, and large teeth marks of all kinds splattered over bark like watercolour. Oaks so tall lost kittens---now cats---still hop from branch to branch with the wind brushing their hair, gorging on gifts of dried zucchini skins, over-ripened peaches and salmon fresh and kickin' from the creek midst their evening conversations with the drowsy owls and great barbets lingering within the treetops.

 

A pale sky stuffed full with daisy white, cotton clouds strangling as much of the sky as possible, reflecting off the salt-laced creek carrying spring water through the woodlands, not too far into the horizon nor the absent tea party. As with everything else, it remains in the forests grasp.


End file.
